Cross Shaped Scar
by Ivory Coal
Summary: HarryDracoDraco SLASH! Twice the Draco, twice the action. Read about the painful collision of Draco's past and future.


Chapter 1: Ivory Dagger  
  
"Oy! GUESS WHO'S ILL AND WON'T BE AT HOGWARTS FOR A WHOLE TERM?!" br Harry jumped in his seat, and caused a deck of Exploding Snap cards to crack like fireworks all over the train compartment he shared with Ron and Hermione. He readjusted his glasses and looked over to see who had given him the heart attack. Two identical, gleeful, freckled redheads grinned back at him. br "Hello Fred, George," he said, a little annoyed. br "So, which little prat d'you reckon is too sick to come to Hogwarts?" Fred now looked thoroughly excited. br "Malfoy?" Ron said hopefully. br "Right on, little bro!" br It was incredible to see Ron's face light up like that, capable of challenging the brightness of his flaming hair. br "Malfoy's sick? But if his rich father's money can't cure it in an instant...he's got to be seriously ill!" Hermione said pensively. br "Yeah...maybe he got gored by a Crumple-Horned Snorkack," Ron said with dreamy eyes, "then had his limbs devoured by a horde of famished pixies!" br Hermione ignored him and went on thoughtfully, "But to think he would risk it in our OWL year! How will he keep up with–oh Ron, don't look so disgusted! I'm not /i for Malfoy, it just seems dodgy that..." br "Why don't you start SPLUG—Society for the Protection of Loathsome and Ugly Gits?" Ron muttered under his breath. br Hermione gave Ron a close-to-murderous-glare and had just opened her mouth to retort when Harry hastily came to the role of mediator once again. br "Hey, this is great news! You know what; I think this deserves a celebration. How about—" He rummaged through his pocket for some gold, and said brightly, "I'll go chase after the food trolley and get us some Cauldron Cakes or something." br He walked down the narrow aisle, faintly amused by his two best friends' obvious feelings for each other, and—looking over his shoulder—the Weasley twins' enthusiasm as they went from compartment to compartment, delivering the joyful news. But he couldn't help wondering that Hermione was right, after all, it was one of the most important years of their education and Malfoy would be mad to— br CRACK. br For the second time in five minutes Harry's heart did a wild flip, and again had to readjust his glasses. But what he saw now wasn't a pair of grinning Weasleys. It was Draco Malfoy. br A taller, more mature Malfoy, silver blonde hair not sleek as usual, but damp and distinctly disheveled. His face was flushed, robes were creased. Not only that, but there was a fresh vertical slash down his left cheek, from high cheekbone to defined jaw. The usual contemptuous sneer was gone, in its place, the usually arrogant boy had the look of someone that had just Apparated 100 miles too far south, and apparently it took him a few seconds to realize where he was. br i Something is wrong here/i, Harry had thought warily before Draco suddenly noticed his presence, and their eyes met. Then Harry was too stunned to even wonder in a coherent manner, because what he saw in those grey eyes wasn't cold contempt or flinty malice, but a nameless emotion so stark that it sent a shiver down his spine. Draco Malfoy looked vulnerable. br They stared at each other for what seemed hours, neither able to speak. It was Harry who broke the painful silence. br "Er...Malfoy...How?...I thought—I thought you were ill." br His words seemed to bring the blonde boy out of a trance, and made him realize his less than dignified appearance. Malfoy stood up deliberately, never breaking eye contact, and seemed to fumble for words. br "Ill...yes. I-I should..." He stopped trying, and just settled on gazing at Harry with that disconcerting look in his eyes for another eternity. Finally, he walked up to Harry so that they were mere inches apart. br Harry instinctively tensed and took a step back, eyeing the Slytherin boy cautiously. After all, when had Malfoy ever passed up a chance to hex him? But this time, Draco tentatively took a small step forward, thought better of it, and thrust something into Harry's hand, before raising his own to Harry's stunned face with the most fleeting touch of butterfly wings, and whispered, "You shall forgive me with this." br Then he strode away in a swirl of robes, and left a speechless Harry standing there, wondering what in the world those words meant, wondering how and why Draco Malfoy had appeared out of nowhere, and wondering if Voldemort's curse hadn't done him mental damage after all. br Harry looked down at his hand, and saw himself holding a small dagger, with an intricately crafted hilt and sheath. It felt heavy and warm from Draco's touch. It also felt familiar, to be holding the smooth ivory. Ivory like Draco's pale cheek. And when Harry unsheathed the dagger with the sound of a lightly plucked harpstring, he wondered if it was with his own imagination that he saw traces of red on the thin blade. br  
* * * br That night, when Harry was finally in his four-poster bed, he asked himself why he hadn't told Ron about his meeting with Malfoy on the Hogwarts Express. Maybe it was because he was afraid that he had gone mad and imagined the whole thing, after all, much to Ron's delight ("ha! Let's see that prick smirk at us from his deathbed!"), the Slytherin boy had indeed not shown up for the Sorting Ceremony and feast. br Glancing up to check that the hangings around his bed were secure, and that Ron and Neville's snores were steady, he took out his wand and muttered "i Lumos" /i. The dim ray of light from the end of his wand fell across the little dagger he had drawn from his pocket. br The dagger looked even more elaborate under wandlight: serpents writhed around dark roses on the hilt; and Nemesis, the goddess of revenge, stood naked and glorious on the sheath. br The carvings sent slight ripples across Harry's mind, like a memory of something that has not happened yet. Why did it look so familiar? Or feel so right to be holding it in his hand? br After a long while, Harry fell into fitful sleep, hand still clutching the dagger. But, whether consciously or not, the hand holding it was gentle, almost like a lover's grasp. br 


End file.
